A Coal Yet Burning
by CapGirlCanuck
Summary: The ones he loved have vanished, and the ashes settle around him. The fire dies, and his world is left cold and dark. But somehow, against all odds, Steve Rogers finds the courage to keep breathing. (He can hear Bucky's voice telling him to.)-Scenes from the five years between Snap and Un-Snap. Nothing but Angst. Mostly.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: ****So yeah, this is pretty dark and sad. There's a reason I refer to those as the Empty Years. ****But apparently diving into those years is essential for me to truly grasp the wonder of getting everyone back. ****(Like heck Steve left them!) ****Even as my heart breaks for him, I am left in awe of Steve's bravery and fortitude. **

**Some small references to characters and incidents from my Brothers2Infinity chapterfic trilogy, especially This is Me. **

**You asked for angst, Ari. This is where I go with angst. ****But if you know me, there's always that little tiny bit of hope underneath it all, there's always a coal yet burning.**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Breathing In the Darkness**

Steve isn't sure how long it takes for him to notice. It is one of those things that seems so painfully obvious in retrospect, but he's been running in combat mode for hours. Days, maybe. He is a little fuzzy about time.

That's the way it is when you're a soldier. Especially when you're a commanding officer. Which he technically isn't, but in the chaos caused by half the people in the world crumbling away to ash without a second's warning, nobody seems to care. Sometimes it's essential to shut certain parts of your mind down, block them out, and focus in on the action of this moment, the next five minutes, the hour. Whatever it takes to save as many lives as possible.

He pauses long enough to rub his sleeve across his forehead, in a vain attempt to stop the sweat running into his eyes. He yanks his arm away when the salt rubs into the barely heals burns on that arm.

"Sir?"

He turns, meet the gaze of an older man, the fire chief insignia emblazoned on his coat. "Reese." Steve notes that he is seeing the worn, soot-streaks face in more than just the lights of the flames and the spotlights. Dawn is coming.

"We have the fire contained." Reese gestures with his handheld radio.

"Good," Steve nods. That is the first step. Thanks to the confusion and loss of personnel, emergency response teams had been slow to get moving all over the city. He guesses it is the same everywhere in his home country. But he is here in New York, and this is where he can help; the other remaining Avengers are scattered around the city. This is one of the worst fire sights: a plane crash in the Queens area, a fully loaded 747, that had come down on top of an ordinary suburban neighborhood. "How far did it get?"

Reese looks away. "By our estimates, a mile from the crash site at the farthest. But that's because of debris from the explosion. So, it's not all burned straight up from here to there."

In other words, more evacuations that need to be done at once. Steve blinks and realizes he's been staring at Reese; he must be getting tired already. He gives his head a quick shake.

"I'll get in there. Pull 'em out."

"And try to stay where the fire _isn't_." Steve follows the other man's pointed gaze to his arm. "We need you in one piece."

Steve turns to head east, ready to skirt around to the areas he hasn't reached yet. "No promises," he calls over his shoulder. It must be the heat and smoke messing with his head, because he thinks he hears Reese laugh.

It is strange how daylight makes fire look less powerful, and at the same time far uglier. Steve guesses the sun will rise in an hour or so, and he doubts he will see it. The clouds of smoke and ash were too thick.

He keeps going, ignoring some things, targeting others.

Pull three kids from a house, including a baby. The baby is not breathing.

Lead a father and his son to safety, both of them dazed and quiet.

Four empty houses in a row.

A complete family, huddles in their basement, the little girl bursting into tears when her father tells her, "Don't be afraid. It's Captain America." Before she lets go of Steve's neck, she whispers in his ear, "Thank you. I love you."

It is hard for him to talk by this point anyway, thanks to the continuous wear of the smoke on his throat and lungs. Every now and then he has to pause for a short coughing fit, and the nearest police officer or paramedic or helpful civilian looks at him with concern. He straightens up, brushes their hands aside, and plunges back into the fight.

He is, for once, alone, when the worst attack seizes him, walking down a street a couple blocks from the crash site, a park to his left, a row of smaller stores on his right. The park's greenery is gone, the ground mostly black, except for the sandy play area around the swing set. The stores look relatively normal, except for the shattered front windows from the explosions.

Chest heaving in the fight for air, Steve stumbles, and sinks down to sit on the sidewalk, feet in the gutter, letting his hands dangle between his knees. It's been a long time since he's felt that particular burn in his throat and lungs, the raw feeling of trying to cough up something you can't. It doesn't help that each breath in is inevitably tainted with smoke and ash.

He bends over, hands gripping the edge of the sidewalk. Finally, he hawks up a mouthful of phlegm and spits into the street, then sits for a minute to slow his heartrate down. He tries to breathe through his nose, to take in less of the debris. He lifts his hands, and brushes them off. Everything is coated in a dark layer of ash, and the flakes seem to stick to his skin…

But ash isn't black, ash is grey. This is neither. This is both.

He lifts his head. A breeze drifts down the street, bringing a pale cloud, and stirring up the darker coating from the street. The dust swirls around him for a moment, and he accidentally takes in a breath through his mouth.

And that is when he sees it, that is when he knows. He chokes, hard enough to pull tears from his eyes. Or is that from the truth? He cannot tell whether he is breathing in human ashes, or the ashes of something else.

They whisk around his boots as he stands and walks on. They settle in his hair as he stands on the lawn of another empty house.

He tips his head back, and he is standing in the street of a Nazi internment camp just inside the Polish border, it is snowing, and the air is heavy with smoke and death. He looks for a glimpse of the sky.

"Captain!"

He expects for a moment to see Dum-Dum calling for him, but no. It is a young man in fatigues, scarf tied over his mouth. One of the National Guard.

"Coming," Steve answers. He does not recognize his own voice.

It is after midnight of the third day since the Snap, by the time the Avengers make their way back… Home, Steve had called it. He stands for a long moment, staring up at the illuminated 'A' on the wall of the hanger. Home?

It isn't.

There is no one waiting, the buildings are silent. Steve moves automatically, catching the duffle bag Nat tosses him, leading the way out into the open air.

He is taking deep breaths without realizing it; the air is clean out here, in the middle of the woods and farms. He catches the scent of cedar and wet grass.

It is Bruce who takes charge when they are inside the main building, Bruce, the only one who has had a decent amount of sleep. He takes Nick's device gently from Nat's hand, orders everyone, "especially you, Cap. That's an order," to bed.

"I'll be in the lab next to the war room," he says, but doesn't move, until everyone else does.

Steve's room is exactly the way he left it. Nothing touched, except that someone has dusted. He stands in the shower for a long time. He is too tired to know how tired he is, but he continues to move, scrubbing his skin clean—clean of soot and dirt and bits of ash. He washes his hair twice—washing out the reek of smoke. He stands for a long time in the spray of water.

By the time he pulls on clean clothes he is not thinking.

He awakes to a room filled with daylight; it is almost noon. For a few dozen seconds, he wonders what he dreamed, and what is real, until he discovers that all the burns on his hands and arms have healed, leaving only new pink skin to remind him. He stands up from the bed and walks to the window. Sun shining out of a blue sky. He sucks in a deep breath.

But it is too late. The darkness is already inside him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Running with Ghosts**

Nights are the worst.

His days are busy, he keeps them that way. He pushes himself to keep moving, to keep walking. He is afraid that if he stops, he might not start again.

When he moves back to New York City, to his tiny apartment in Brooklyn that he kept for emergencies, he finds more than enough work. And work that leaves him feeling marginally better than going down to the gym at the compound and beating the stuffing out of half a dozen punching bags.

It is not the Brooklyn, or the New York, he knew. But it is the Brooklyn he has, and he will do what he can to help it, to… he thinks _heal_ might be too much to hope for. Hope died with Thanos. But Steve didn't.

There are moments he wishes he had.

They are not all nightmares. Some are just dreams—beautiful dreams. But the result is always the same. He comes awake, and he is staring into the semi-darkness of his ceiling, seeing them. That's the way his mind works, he knows. Even the pictures in his head are enhanced, to the point where it is as if they are all right there in the room with him.

He tries to deal with it, tries to find an outlet. He can hear Sam telling him to: "You can't keep everything inside, you know. It's like food in a refrigerator. All good, but if you never open the door, it'll all go bad. It doesn't have to be talking."

Which is fine because Steve can't do that. He can't talk about them.

He whispers their names in the dead of night, when the loneliness piles up on his chest, stealing the breath from his lungs, threatening to crush him. But he can't mention them to anyone. Because he cannot use the word 'was'.

In his heart and memory, they are as close and as real as the air he somehow still breathes. They may not be there in body, but he holds them still in his heart, and he is afraid… of what, he's not sure. All he knows is that it hurts. If he opens his mouth, it hurts. Something chokes him off, and he can't speak. It hurts.

He is infinitely grateful for Natasha's tacit understanding. Talking out feelings has never been her thing, and now Steve is glad of it. A small gift, but a gift nonetheless.

He considers writing, keeping a journal of some kind. But that kind of pencil on paper—scripted characters held between the lines—has never been his strong point. That was Bucky's.

Steve remembers the neat script of school papers, and the stack of journals on the shelf in Bucky's hut. Steve had never read any them, except when Bucky specifically asked; they were…

Steve stands up from the edge of the bed abruptly, clenching his jaw so hard, he risks cracking a tooth.

No. Not writing.

But pencil and paper can produce more than words.

It takes a minute for his mind to absorb this, but at last he reaches for his old duffle bag, lying beside the dresser. It is always packed, ready for an emergency call. T-shirts, a sweater, a couple pairs of jeans, clean socks. Extra bootlaces. Shaving kit.

He is still a soldier.

But from underneath those essentials he pulls a book. A sketchbook.

There is another there, too. A worn, dented, well-handled one. Black cover, gold designs– But he leaves it at rest.

He holds the smaller blue one, fingers the pencil tucked into the coil spine. Sharon had given him both as a Valentine's Day gift, and he hadn't used more than the first dozen pages. It falls open in his hand, and suddenly he can smell her: lavender laundry soap, morning dew hairspray, and cinnamon. Cinnamon coffee.

He blinks, hard. And sees the drawings. The last ones he'd done.

Bucky. And Sam. Heads and shoulders. Bucky smiling slightly, gaze resting on something to one side. Sam with his head tilted conversationally toward him, hand resting on Bucky's missing shoulder.

And on the other page, just Bucky. From the waist up. Hair tucked behind one ear, chin covered in stubble, wearing a t-shirt, no scarf tied over his left shoulder. Bucky. Smiling at him.

Steve does not recognize the sound that escapes his throat.

His hands move, impossibly light and gentle, closing the sketchbook, and tucking it back into the bag.

It is all he can do to breathe. He stands at the window, staring down at the empty street. He closes his eyes, rests his forehead against the cold glass.

Winter is coming.

"Bucky," he whispers.

He is determined not to cry. He has done enough of that.

Some of the work he has gotten involved in is through his old church, the one his and Bucky's families had gone to. It had been something comforting and familiar in the new century, and he had felt drawn back, attending as often as his schedule allowed.

The other day, he'd been helping deliver meals to a family who had lost both parents. An eighteen-year-old girl with a younger sister and little brother, trying to hold her family together. He saw the boy, not even ten, sitting at the kitchen table, face a frozen mask of grief. "You have to eat," his sister told him. "You _have_ to."

And then the boy suddenly blurted, "Did Mom make it?" and he was crying, sobbing, falling apart as his sister gathered him into her arms.

Steve had watched and remembered. Remembered Bucky's strong arms, holding him tight while he cried for his own mother. Remembered Bucky crying too, because Sarah Rogers had been like a second mother to him. Remembered the months of numb depression that followed, when all he could feel was Bucky's warmth.

Steve had watched and known. As long as they have each other, they will make it. They will survive.

He feels a tear slip down his cheek. Snaps his eyes open. He stares blindly out into the night.

"I need you," he whispers. "I can't do this, Buck, I can't. I need you here. I need him, I need her." He needs his brothers, his girl. He needs the warmth of Sharon's hand on his face, of Sam's grip on his shoulder, of Bucky's arm around him.

He needs it so badly, he can almost feel it. But he turns, and the room is empty. He is alone. The cold of the glass he leans against seeps through his t-shirt.

Again, he closes his eyes. "Bucky," he tries to say, but only a sob breaks out of him.

And again, he is moving, instinctively, fighting the pain. He strides out of the bedroom, through the kitchen/living room to the front door. He has the presence of mind to grab a coat, before he laces his running shoes. He notices his hands are shaking.

The cold night air surrounds him, fills his lungs, sharp and clear as ice water. But the tears are hot on his cheeks, as is the snot on his upper lip; he swings one arm up to wipe his sleeve across his face. His chest heaves with the effort of pulling in enough oxygen, between the sobs and the running.

He doesn't go back to his apartment, until dawn.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Holding On**

He sits at the kitchen table, picking absently at a bowlful of granola cereal, staring out the window. Rain streaks the glass, and he wonders if the fireworks will get canceled. Not likely. Not unless it's still pouring by 10 o'clock at night.

Steve glances down and is surprised to see the bowl almost empty. Any sensation of hunger dies, but he forces down the last three spoonfuls.

He has learned his limits; some days he is simply incapable of finishing a meal. If it had been more left over this morning, he would have thrown it out, or put it in the refrigerator; when he comes in from a run, he will eat anything. Last night he came in at 4 am.

He downs the last of his glass of water, which helps to settle his stomach.

The drops blur the view of the trees in the park, running into each other in a steady rhythm. He finds he does not have the strength to stand. Once again, for the– He is suddenly unable to remember what year it is, how long it has been, and how many times he has found himself here, sitting alone in silence, on the morning of his birthday.

He blinks, trying weakly to steady himself, to grab hold of reality. He looks to where a calendar is tacked up, on the wall between the fridge and the front door, tries to focus on the numbers, but it's blurred.

He jerks as the drinking glass shatters in his hand.

For a moment he freezes, vision instantly clearing. He opens his left fist, pieces of glass falling to the table, and stares at red blood welling from the cut skin, small shards of glass glinting wetly where they have embedded themselves in his palm and fingers.

The pain hits, and he rises, turning his palm up, feeling blood pool in the cup of his hand.

In the bathroom, he sticks his left hand in the sink, turns the water on. Training takes over as he reaches for the first-aid kit, fumbling for a pair of tweezers. He watches the red-stained water swirl down the drain, before he bends over his task.

By the time the fifth shining fragment is laid on the counter, his hands are shaking. _He _is shaking. He clenches his jaw against it, zeroing in on the next bit of glass he has to pull out. He barely catches it in the grip of the tweezers.

_One more_, he tells himself. _One more_.

And then it _is_ only one more, and his knees go weak. He drops the tweezers with the last shard, grabbing the edge of the sink to steady himself.

"Buck," he manages to say, before he vomits into the sink.

The taste of breakfast mixes with bile and… something else. Salty.

Tears.

His stomach finally empty, he lets his legs fold, and he sinks to the floor. For a moment he kneels, struggling to catch his breath, sweat, tears, and snot mingled on his face.

He can't cry now, it's been months since he last broke down, he can't, he can't, it's his birthday. He clenches his eyes shut, and in the darkness catches a glimpse of meteors streaking an African sky, feels the warmth of a strong hand wrapped around his.

His eyes open against his will, and he is staring down at his empty left hand, the last of the cuts, slowly disappearing. He realizes something: despite the heat of his body raised by vomiting and the emotions roiling inside him, his hand is cold.

Something lands on his thumb. Something small, warm, wet.

"Bucky," he whispers, and he shatters. Slumped against the cupboards in his bathroom, knees curled against his chest, alone, Steve cries.

He cries hard. It is painful and messy and all he can feel is the _absence_ of comfort. The floor tiles are hard underneath him, as is the edge of the door against his one shoulder. The air wrapped around his other side is cool.

Tears soak the sleeve of the one arm resting across his knees. Once or twice the sobs get thick enough that he can't breathe.

He misses Bucky. He misses him right here, right now. He needs him, needs the strong, warm arms of his friend who had seen him to death's door and back, needs the steady heartbeat of his brother who had never stopped loving him. He needs to be held by the one person who holds so much of him that he can never be truly whole without him. He needs Bucky.

He needs Bucky to hold him.

But Bucky isn't there.

Only the ache grips him, and the tears fall.

He cries until he has nothing left.

* * *

He blinks himself awake, discovering he has fallen asleep on the floor of his bathroom. He unfolds himself slowly in the small space, standing and stretching his back. He pulls out his phone to check the time: 10:43. He has slept for over two hours, the longest continual time he has slept in a week.

As he turns toward the sink, he realizes his head is clear. The brooding lethargy has disappeared. But the ache remains.

He can live with that.

He cleans up in the bathroom and kitchen, finishing right before his phone chimes. A reminder. He is having lunch with the kids.

He drives through the grey, rain streaming down the windows of his truck. "Nice day, huh, Buck?" he murmurs, under his breath.

The weather makes him a few minutes late and he pulls in around the back of the church, to find the bus is already there. He parks his truck, and pauses for a moment, watching the kids hurry toward the low stone building built onto the back of the old church. The windows glow with warm light, highlighting the words on the glass front doors: _Hands of Hope._

Some of them run, arms over their heads. A couple have umbrellas, and as many other kids as possible cluster under them. Others take their time, not caring how wet they get. Most just jog, shoulders hunched, heads down.

And one little girl goes skipping through the biggest puddle in the parking lot.

Steve hears the echo of laughter. He thinks of Sharon, who knows how to dance in the rain. Of Sam, who hates thunderstorms, but plays in the mud with the kids. Of Bucky who will smile, and tip his head back to let the drops wash over his face.

The next breath he takes is shaky, but his eyes focus on a young man shepherding the girl inside, and he moves, stepping out of his truck to join them.

He enters the building, enters the chaos of life. The life of thirty-plus children, all under the age of 18, hyped by the holiday and the rain and, of course, the food smells already drifting from the kitchen in the back.

He hangs back, watching. No one has noticed him yet. Volunteers are handing out towels for the wettest kids. The door to the gym is open and a basketball game is starting. Usually he would join in. But not today.

They are all orphans here, alone in the world, thanks to Thanos. This busload is from the church's own orphanage. Steve wasn't able to save their families, so he will give all he has left to save them.

Three little black boys run past, giggling and shoving each other, and again Steve loses his breath.

_("Wakanda forever!" "Yahhhhh!" The thud of three small wooden spears finding their mark on the outer wall of Bucky's hut.)_

He shakes it off, and leans back against the wall, ballcap pulled down, hands in the pockets of his jeans.

She finds him there, the little girl who ran through the puddles. She latches onto his leg, the wet of her summer dress soaking through his pants. He looks down into the little seven-year-old face, blonde hair straggling out of her sloppy braid.

Rose.

"Hey," he tries to say, but it comes out in a whisper, lost in the hubbub. Doesn't matter, she knows what he said. She lifts her right hand and signs very fast: _H-A-P-P-Y-B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y-M-R-S-T-E-V-E._

Then she holds up her hand, folding down her second and third fingers, so her thumb, index finger, and pinkie are sticking out.

He taught himself sign language in a week for her. Steve's hand is shaking as he returns the gesture.

He bends down to pick her up. Holds her close.

He sits against the wall, right there, the girl in his lap. He uses the towel she has around her shoulders to dry her hair, before wrapping it around her again. She signs to him to braid her hair. He does it in the French braid Sharon taught him, the way his mom used to wear it.

He tickles her nose with the end of the braid, making her giggle. Then he pulls her in against his chest, she curls into him, head on his shoulder, and he closes his eyes.

The sounds wash over him: laughter, shouts, the squeak of shoes from the gym, singing. A fight erupts over in the LEGO corner, but almost immediately he hears the voice of Kyle, one of the oldest boys, breaking it up.

The girl breathes in his arms, warm and damp and smelling of summer.

He sits between her and a boy with red hair in the dining hall for lunch. It is July the 4th, so of course the food is barbecue, and Steve's swallows uneasily. Of course, he is hungry, but…

A tug at his sleeve, and he glances down at the boy, Brady. "Happy Birthday, Mr. Rogers," he says, and grins. "The weather man says it should stop raining in time for fireworks. Then it'll be a beautiful day in the neighborhood." He sings the last part, and Steve roughs a hand over his hair, finding a small grin for the boy's joke.

Now a very small hand pats his left, and he looks over at Rose. _Are fireworks scary?_

He signs back: _No. W-E-L-L, sometimes. Sometimes they are scary. But they are always beautiful. _

_As long as you hold my hand, I won't be scared._

The call comes that it is time to say grace, and everyone reaches out. Grabs the hands of the people on either side.

Steve holds onto Brady, and he holds on to Rose, and when he bows his head, he finds the strength to say, _Thank You._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Fault Lines**

Time passes. The pages of the calendar flick over. One year melts into another.

He runs. He works. He helps the kids.

He finds a therapy group through the VA, helps to lead it.

That is actually… good. They talk, he listens, he talks a little. Mostly giving advice. It's not something he thinks he's good at, and then he hears Sam's words come out of his mouth (or Dr. Dal's, or Bucky's) and he realizes something: they are with him.

They are in his dreams—and his nightmares—too. He still can't talk about them.

Instead he tells about losing everything the first time.

_The first time._

It's Sam's voice in his head again, tonight.

Not surprising really. He does this because of him.

Now Steve can see Sam, arms crossed over his chest, gaze steady on Nick Fury's face: _"I do what he does, just slower."_

Steve doesn't think he'll ever be able to do what Sam did.

He drops down on a park bench and closes his eyes. His head is buzzing, making it hard to focus. The last few days have been full, between the veterans and the kids, and bringing both of them together that afternoon. He had walked to the church, and is now walking home.

His thoughts are jagged and disjointed.

He is tired. Tired of trying to be hopeful, tired of trying to rebuild a life. He's done it already. But to do it again?

There are days, sometimes even weeks now, when the weight eases, when he smiles at the sunsets and the children.

But it always comes back.

He knows what it is now, to be the one left behind. When all you can think is how it should be.

An ache in his throat has him snapping his eyes open, widening them to hold back the threatening burn.

He tries to focus on his surroundings. It's a warm, late August evening. It has been a dry summer this year, and the scent of goldenrod and wild flowers, and the one bed of roses in this little park, has a dusty hint to it. The sky is clear overhead, but the sun is sinking behind a bank of clouds, creating all shades of light and shadow.

It's after supper, so there are a few people out walking. Husband and wife, the man pushing a stroller. An old woman walking her dog. Two boys, the taller one with his arm looped around the other's neck, both with their heads down.

And there they are. The dreams of a life with Sharon, fragile, still uncertain, but stronger every time he saw her. The memory of Umkhulu, the elder lady in Wakanda who scolded he and Bucky like sons. The feel of Bucky's arm around his shoulders…

Steve's not sure how long it takes to notice, what with all the clamor in his head, but there is a violinist playing somewhere. He cocks his head, lets his eyes follow the sound.

In the little gazebo, sitting on the steps, at an angle from Steve, half-hidden by the railing. He cannot tell who they are, though he catches a gleam of red hair, but they are good.

He doesn't recognize the tune; it is quiet and slow.

He listens with half an ear. Thinking of how Kyle needs a new computer, and Jessalyn has been clean for a month _("A whole month!")_, and he wishes Sharon could see Rose nail him in the hip with a roundhouse kick.

From the past to the present and back again. There is too much inside him, too much he cannot say.

He realizes that there is silence in the park, before the musician begins something else.

Steve makes himself close his eyes.

This piece is different. It sounds oddly… disjointed? It goes from high to low and back again so quickly, sometimes from note to note. Complex.

His breathing slows, even as thoughts keep ping-ponging around his brain. Bucky had always liked big bands and Ella Fitzgerald, but he's acquired a thing for instrumental stuff too. Maybe because he can't sing? Sam on the other hand likes his pop and rap and… Steve can't remember what it's all called. Sam can sing okay. But he can't rap to save his life.

The music goes on, rising and falling. He can't help thinking it sounds ragged, pieced together.

He has his head down, when two pairs of feet stop in front of his bench. He opens his eyes quickly.

Running shoes. Those boys? They seem to turn toward him, and he risks a quick glance up.

A sharp intake of breath. "Captain America?!"

He flinches. Sometimes people still get mad at him. They ask him why he couldn't stop Thanos. They ask why he couldn't save them. Once, back around the first Christmas after the Snap, a girl spat at him. She'd had tears running down her face.

No tears here. The taller boy is thin, brown hair, a mass of freckles across his tanned face. The other boy has close-cropped black hair, smile bright against his dark skin. Both wear t-shirts and jeans.

"Did you fight Thanos?" the thin boy blurts out. Instantly he blushes, and his friend shoots him a glare.

It takes Steve a moment to find the energy for an answer. "Yes."

"Were you afraid?"

Steve looks into the embarrassed, but curious eyes. "Deep down, I always am."

"Why?" The black boy's voice is quiet.

The words come out. "Because of what I can lose."

There is a moment's quiet, filled in by the song of the violin, softer now. A breeze stirs the leaves.

The brown-haired boy speaks hesitantly. "Did you get beat up bad? What did he do?"

Steve looks up at them. The taller boy has green eyes.

"He took everything."

Silence. Even the birds hush.

"Not everything," the black boy says. His hand goes up across his friend's back to grip the other boy's opposite shoulder. "Not everything."

The taller one nods slowly. "Yeah." His cheeks are still flushed and he's talking through his shyness. "We lost a lot."

"My dad," the other boy puts in.

"My mom. But not everything. We still got each other." The other boy punches him in the ribs. "We're still here."

Steve looks at them, sees himself. Himself and Buck, a little bruised, a little battered, a little sobered. But ready to take on the world.

"We're still here."

He doesn't realize he repeats it out loud, until the shorter boy nods.

"We could have all died. But we didn't. And my dad wouldn't want me just quittin' on, you know, life. He never did."

The violin sings on.

Steve sees something in those dark eyes. "Should have been me instead of him then."

Both heads go down, there is some shifting of feet.

Finally, the boy looks back up. "You'd do that, wouldn't you. If you could." It's a statement, not a question. "But you can't. My dad used to say, 'I ain't God.' You might be a superhero. But… you're still just a person."

"It's not your fault," his friend blurts out, and when Steve looks at him, he shrugs his shoulders up to his ears. "It isn't," he mumbles into his collar, "and anyone who says that is just stupid. It was Thanos that…" His voice trails off in unintelligible curses.

Something hard and brittle inside Steve cracks. Something lets go.

He cannot speak. He only nods and looks down at his clasped hands. Dimly he hears the music.

The black boy clears his throat. "Um, I guess I should say sorry. Actually, we wanted to ask if you know a guy named Kyle?"

Steve collects himself, looks up again. Nods.

"I think it's really cool what you're doing for him and the other kids," the brown-haired boy says. "Really cool." He looks like he wishes he could take back the last 'really cool'.

His friend smiles. "Yeah. We'll tell him we ran into you." He gives the other boy a nudge in the ribs. "We should move out."

"Yeah."

Steve stands suddenly, towering over the two boys. His smile is not forced, even if he knows it is tinged with sadness. He sees how their eyes widen, in spite of themselves. "Thank you," he says, very quietly.

They simply nod. Back up a couple steps, still gazing up at him. Steve brings up his right hand to touch his forehead.

They freeze. Then salute back. In unison.

They turn and bolt, down the path toward the street, running hard, jostling each other for position. Laughing.

Steve sinks back down on the bench. He is suddenly glad to be alone. He doesn't know why the boys' voices can reach him in this way. Maybe the same reason Rose's can. Whatever that is.

He hears the mingling of notes, high and low, dark and light, layering over each other. Twining together for the final notes.

He sits in silence.

Before the song begins again.

It is the same one. He wonders who is playing, what drives their hands to play this piece. Because, whatever it is, it carries all that they are.

Something has been broken. But someone is putting it back together.

He doesn't think he'll ever get there.

He hears another voice in his head now, Dr. Dal, Bucky's head psychiatrist in Wakanda: _"Some ghosts will never leave, some scars never fade. And that's alright. It's how you live with them that matters." _

"Don't leave me," he whispers. "Please, don't leave me."

The voice of the violin finally ends, giving way to the crickets and a night breeze.

He stands, dries his face on his sleeve. He cannot see the musician any longer, and that's alright; they've already spoken. He walks home in the shadows, smiling at the light that shines through the cracks.

The sun rises the next morning. And the next.


	5. Chapter 5

Decided to post the last chapter today, so I can post Christmas stuff next week. Yes, it's one chapter for each year.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Looking for the Light**

He walks down the hallway toward 218, grocery bags rustling, the jingle of his keys as he shifts them, finding the right one. He nods and smiles at the older woman he passes.

The key turns in the lock. His apartment is quiet, except for the hum of the refrigerator.

He hangs up his jacket, turns on the old-fashioned radio near the couch, then goes to put his groceries away. Milk, eggs, butter, some fresh vegetables.

He closes the fridge door, starts to turn away, and pauses. Held there with magnets is Rose's last painting, a watercolor outlined in pen: a girl sitting against the wall in a dark, shadowed room, except that next to her the door is cracked open. On the beam of light floats a blue butterfly.

Steve smiles.

He finishes with the other foodstuffs, then leaves the bag of books on the coffee table by the couch, so he can't miss them tomorrow. He'd found almost everything Jonathan had said his brother liked.

A song on the radio catches him:

_And darling, I will be loving you til we're seventy.  
And baby, my heart could still fall as hard at twenty-three…_

He freezes.

Sharon's arms around his neck, his cheek pressed against her hair, the smell of flowers, her warm softness against him, holding her close as they sway, eyes closed, lost in the dance.

_Take me into your loving arms.  
Kiss me under the light of a thousand stars…_

The warmth of her lips against his. The rising tide inside him.

_I'm thinking out loud.  
Maybe we found love right we are._

The slow burn of the knowledge that he doesn't want to let go. The desire that some night the dance won't have to end and he can wake up to her for the rest of his life.

The click of the refrigerator turning off breaks the moment. He sucks in a deep breath, settles his feet in the present. The glow of the memory fades to a dull ache.

_Dear God…_

It had been hard enough to let go of Peggy, to come to terms with losing his first love, but he had done it. He can't even think of doing it again.

As he pads down the hall to the bathroom, he thinks of his last regular meeting with the VA group. A dreary drizzly day. Only the regulars. Rika, the black-haired girl (she's only 25) saying how she'd stopped randomly texting her boyfriend's number. Russ mentioning that he'd been on a date.

The echo of Steve's own words: "You gotta move on."

Perhaps… perhaps in life, moving on—in one sense—was inevitable. Like the ticking of a clock.

But letting go was a choice. One his heart hasn't made.

He washes his hands, dries them, noticing that he is low on hand soap.

There is another of Rose's pictures on the wall beside the mirror: crayon drawing of a boy and a dog sitting under an umbrella on the beach, while the falling rain almost obscures the tiny yellow sail in the distance.

He walks back to the front room, glances at the clock, switches off the radio. He should leave if he's going to get to the Avenger's compound before dark. It's been a few weeks since he last saw Nat.

* * *

The sun hangs just above the horizon, gilding the hydro wires in gold. The road Steve is following swings toward the river and the trees part so he can see the bridge. Three cars pass going in the opposite direction.

The road is empty, he is alone again. He has the radio on a low enough volume that he can ignore it if he wants to.

He is maybe a third of the way across the river, when he catches something out of the corner of his eye. Movement on the water. A glance to his right, and his foot eases off the gas.

He looks again, taking it in, before he is braking, slowing.

No one else is around to see as his truck pulls to the side of the road, eases to a stop. He puts the truck in park, and sits for a minute, staring across the cab out the opposite window at the river below.

Flashes of black and white, water flying.

The engine dies, the keys jingle as he takes his hand away from the ignition, and he opens his door.

A breeze ruffles his hair as he leans on the railing, and he is back there at Gravesend, Bucky dragging him toward the seawall. It is the spring after his mother died.

He can hear the sonorous calls of the whales, the _whoosh_ of their bodies leaving the water, and the heavy splash as they fall back in. Bucky's arm is around his shoulders, Bucky is shouting into the wind.

It is the first time he finds himself laughing since October.

Steve blinks the blurring images away. Watches the powerful, shining bodies of the killer whales, graceful, even in play. He has never seen them this far up the river. They frolic in shadow, the last rays of the sun on Steve's cheek. He reaches up one hand and wipes away the moisture there.

"See, Buck?" he murmurs. "I can't do it without you."

In the end it's always Bucky.

Bucky who came to him in the darkness, and loved him back to the light. Loved him back to himself, no matter how unsure Steve might be about who that was. Loved him home.

Bucky who somehow comes to him now in the twisting, gleaming, splashing life of a pod of whales, in the soft breeze that whispers of sunshine, in the warm tears on Steve's face.

He closes his eyes, and Bucky is there. His arm around Steve's neck, his thumb brushing across Steve's cheek. Bucky stands at his side, his presence a protection and a comfort. He doesn't need words; he and Steve are far beyond that. He simply loves Steve, with whatever he has.

A moment, an eternity.

Before a sound, breaking the spell.

A car approaches, from the same direction Steve has come from. He opens his eyes as it slows to pass around his truck, and the headlights flash over him.

The sun is gone. The whales are moving downstream.

The wind is cold.

He is alone.

A shiver works its way through him, and he catches his breath.

Another car is coming in the opposite direction, and he bows his head, walking around the front of his truck to climb into the cab. As he shuts the door behind him, he feels instantly warmer. The headlights pass over him and are gone, leaving him in the half-light of dusk.

Steve swallows hard, and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to hold on to that moment, to hold on to the wordless whisper of his best friend's love.

Like ashes on the wind, it swirls around him, before it's gone.

He drives through the shadows, the light lingering in the sky, music on the radio.

_…What's left to do with these broken pieces on the floor?_  
_I'm losing my voice calling on you…_

_'Cause I've been shaking_  
_I've been bending backwards till I'm broke_  
_Watching all these dreams go up in smoke_

_…Can you use these tears to put out the fires in my soul?_  
_'Cause I need you here…_

_Let beauty come out of ashes_  
_Let beauty come out of ashes_  
_And when I pray to God all I ask is_  
_Can beauty come out of ashes?_

_Can beauty come out of ashes?_

By the time he pulls in to the drive at the Avengers' compound, the sky overhead has darkened.

Now he can see the stars.

* * *

**Notes:**

"Thinking Out Loud" by Ed Sheeran

"Ashes" by Céline Dion

_You may kill a fire. And everything you know falls to dust and ash. Yet the remarkable treasure in this seemingly hopeless pile, is hidden deep within. The burning embers incarnate the perpetual desire to go from spark to flame."_ Akilnathan Logeswaran

I'm letting someone else say it, because I have no words left. You know what happens next.

Thanks for reading. Reviews always appreciated.


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